


Stranded

by ActualWritesThings



Category: Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss
Genre: Amputation, Gen, Gore, Graphic Description, Very graphic, don't read if squeamish, graphic depiction of injury, it's pretty damn graphic, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 09:12:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13163817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualWritesThings/pseuds/ActualWritesThings
Summary: A pilot, a crash, and the immediate aftermath thereof.





	Stranded

Toast wakes up to pain shooting up his right leg, localized somewhere around his ankle. He reaches for it, desperate to make it stop, make it better, to do _something._ Only for his hand to meet jagged metal instead of flesh. He pries open his eyes, which he hadn’t even realized he’d closed, and suddenly everything snaps into place.

He’s been shot down. He’s been shot down onto a barren rock of a planet. He’s been shot down onto a barren rock of a planet and is currently pinned under his fighter. Which is on fire. Only a little but still. _Fire bad._ Blood drips into his eyes as he assesses the situation, adding yet another problem to the ever-growing list.

Controlling his breath, forcing himself to stay calm, he tries to shift the bits of metal and transparisteel that had been his cockpit off his leg. No luck. It stays firmly wedged and all he achieves is more pain running up his leg. He tries again, bracing his left foot against the ground, back bowing with the effort. And again. And again and again until his hands are raw and bloody and his breath rattling in his chest despite how he’d been trying to control it. Nothing. He can’t move the cockpit, not when the entire damn fighter’s pinning him.

Sweat and blood mingle together and drip into his eyes again. He’s warmer than he should be. The fire’s gotten larger. He’s running out of time. One last desperate push, enough to shift the metal a fraction of a hair before it drops back down again onto his leg. The pain shoots up his leg, as fierce and bright as the fire that’s going to consume him soon enough. It’s enough to bring tears to his eyes. Not like this. Not like this, alone and forgotten. He never even got to say goodbye.

The tears running down his cheeks sting as they run down his cheek, and he slams his fist into the transparisteel of the cockpit, hard enough shards of it rain down on him. Transparisteel’s _sharp._ Very sharp. Sharp enough probably. Oh but this is going to _hurt._

Gritting his teeth, he grabs up the largest shard, holding it carefully as he cuts away cloth from the leg of his flight suit. The strips are wrapped around the end, to give him something to hold onto, keep him from slicing his hand to the bone as he does this. Another strip of cloth is tied around his leg, tight enough that he hopefully won’t bleed out before he can finish the job.

Toast doesn’t let himself think about what he’s about to do. He just needs to _do_ it. One last cut strip of flight suit, rolled up and shoved into his mouth. It tastes horrible, but it’s easier to focus on that than the pain. Hopefully it stays that way.

Deep breath. And _begin._

The first few cuts are the worst and he retches around the wad of flight suit, biting down on it to keep from screaming. After that, he shoves the pain aside. He has to. The flames are getting even closer and if he doesn’t do this now, he will die. The bones give him trouble, but desperation gives him strength and he sobs with relief when he feels them snap. And pain, because holy fucking shit it _hurts._

Done. He pulls his leg -stump- out, wrapping what makeshift bandages he has around the wound, praying he doesn’t bleed out.

He rolls over, spitting out the gag as he does. The motion makes the wounds on his body ache, but he needs to get out of the cockpit. He’s not going to burn to death. Not now. Not after what he just did. The transparisteel’s weak, shattered, and he just needs to clear a hole for himself. More strips of cloth, wrapped around his palms. His flight suit’s little more than rags now. That’s a problem for later.

He grabs piece after piece of the cockpit, flinging them away from him as he scrabbles to escape. The heat’s getting worse, and sweat won’t stop pouring down his body. It’s bad, and it makes it harder and harder to actually grab the shards. But finally, there’s a crawl space big enough for him to wriggle through.

He almost gets stuck. It’s hard to crawl with only one leg. He manages though, forces himself forward and the pain back until he’s out of the fighter that could have been his death. Could still be his death if the fuel ignites. He needs to leave.

He crawls, dragging himself away, desperate handful by desperate handful until he’s far enough to watch his fighter burn. And it does, the fire finally reaching the fuel tanks, consuming it all in a burst of noise and heat. Debris scatters everywhere, but he’s pressed himself against the rust red soil. That and luck are what save him and he groans as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, staring out into the night of this planet.

There’s still the light of the fire, and its warmth. It’s enough for him to see and take stock of his situation. It’s not great.

Alone. Crashed. On a barren planet. With one leg. No supplies.

This is going to _suck._


End file.
